Chasing the Son

by Bob Mayer

  “We fight,” Doc agreed, “but I think the fellow in charge wants us alive. Since he’s already got three bodies on the other boat, two more wouldn’t make much difference.”

  That seemed to satisfy Harry slightly. But then the boat slowed down. They could hear muffled voices. Then a muted explosion. Harry was leaning, trying to see. “They’re scuttling the other boat. The one we were on.”

  “Getting rid of the bodies,” Doc said. “Since we’re not on it, I’d say we’re useful for a while longer.”

  “They were people,” Harry said.

  Doc was surprised. “What?”

  “Those three men,” Harry said. “They held us prisoner, but we know they were just doing it for the money. They never hurt us. They fed us. They were people. They didn’t deserve to die.”

  Doc Cleary looked at Harry. “True, true. Many who die don’t deserve it. But many who live have a pain worse than death.”

  Harry turned from the porthole. “What do you mean?”

  “We don’t know anyone’s true story,” Doc said. “No one but you and me can say what truly happened at the Institute. I’ve regretted every day that I got you that appointment.”

  “You thought it was best for my future.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “You were,” Harry said.

  And that brought a smile to Doc’s face. “I am so glad to hear you say that.”

  The engines revved up and the boat made a long arc, heading west.

  “We’re going back,” Doc Cleary said. “We’ll find out soon enough what’s going on.”

  * * *

  By boat, Riley meant an F-470 Zodiac. A dinghy; not a boat per se in the class of Sarah Briggs, and only fit to be used to transfer people back and forth to a yacht in the class of Preston Gregory’s. But he was content with it, although almost every boat, especially around Hilton Head, was bigger than it.

  He’d seen Caddyshack and enjoyed it.

  He expertly drew the Zodiac up to the pier on the northern end of Daufuskie, cutting the motor as he looped a rope a stanchion. One other boat tied up to the pier, but otherwise the place looked deserted.

  “Where are we going to look?” Westland asked, as he helped her off the boat.

  Chase hopped up next to them.

  Riley pointed at the other boat. “Whoever that is won’t be far.” He pointed. “Marshside Mama’s, most likely. It’s been closed but—“ Riley nodded as he saw three men sitting at one of the outside tables.

  “That’s the guy,” Chase said, pointing at one of them, “who dove off Fabrou’s boat.”

  “The others are Chad Mongin Senior and Junior,” Riley said. “Owned most of this island long ago, but sold most of it off. Now they have a place on the mainland, across the water. The elder is a degenerate.”

  “’Degenerate’?” Westland asked as Riley led the way along the dock toward the restaurant.

  “Gambler,” Riley said. “I cut him off long ago.”

  “How do you want to approach this?” Chase asked.

  “I want to approach this from the perspective of finding out what the fuck is going on,” Riley said.

  They came up to the table. The three men stopped talking and turned to stare at them. Dillon was partially dry from his swim. The Mongin’s were dressed in what was pretty much the uniform of the Low Country: khaki slacks and golf shirts.

  “Hey, Mongin,” Riley said, eyes on the elder.

  “Riley,” Mongin said.

  “Who is your friend?” Riley asked.

  “My name’s Dillon. You must be Dave Riley.” Dillon shifted his gaze. “And you’re Horace Chase.” He looked at Westland. “You have the advantage, ma’am.”

  “What a polite young man,” Westland said. “I am growing more enchanted with the Low Country with each new encounter.”

  Chase addressed Dillon. “Saw you jump ship not long ago.” He jerked a thumb at the water. “Merchant Fabrou not happy with you?”

  The three at the table exchanged glances.

  “We just found out that he had a heart attack,” Riley continued. “Same as Alfonso Farrelli yesterday. Someone is wiping out the competition for this land-grab.”

  “He was fine when I left,” Dillon protested.

  “Then why did you jump ship?” Chase asked. “While getting shot at?”

  “Preston Gregory,” Dillon said. “He—“ then he paused. “Shit. Preston is doing it. He killed Fabrou’s son. Then he killed Merchant.”

  “Back up,” Westland said. “What about Fabrou’s son?”

  “I grabbed him last night in Charleston,” Dillon said. “I was trying to find out about what happened that night with Harry Brannigan—“ he paused and looked at Chase—“what happened with your son that night at the Institute. I don’t think they’re telling the truth. I mock hanged him, but left him alive. But Preston showed up on the boat saying he was dead. Had his Institute ring, which I left there at the bridge. He killed him. Then he killed Merchant. Wiped out the Fabrou’s. They were the other half of this deal.”

  As everyone absorbed that, Dillon turned to the two Mongin’s. “You’re next. You and whoever owns Bloody Point. And Mrs. Jenrette. Preston wants it all.”

  “Oh shit,” Chad said, pointing. A fiberglass speed boat was roaring up to the dock, four men on board.

  “Heart attack time is over,” Chase said, checking his pistol.

  “Preston is with them,” Chad said. “We can talk to him.”

  “I doubt that,” Riley muttered.

  Un-noticed by the rest of them, Westland reached into her bag and hit a button on her phone.

  * * *

  The sniper was relaxing in the back of the idling MH-6 ‘Little Bird’ helicopter, the roar of the engine a comforting sound. She wore a ‘monkey harness’, with a strap bolted into the floor. The measurement on the strap was exact, the result of many hours of experimentation.

  When her headset crackled with the incoming alert, she checked that she had a round in the chamber (she knew she did, her finger was her safety, but one always checked), as the pilots lifted the bird up out of the small clearing where they’d been waiting.

  On their display, a blip indicated where the alert had come from.

  “Six minutes ETA,” the pilot announced.

  “Make it five,” the sniper advised.

  * * *

  Riley, Chase and Westland formed a front guard as the two Mongin’s stepped behind them. Dillon moved to flank Chase.

  “You armed?” Chase asked him.

  “Negative.”

  “Then get behind us,” Chase suggested and Dillon ignored.

  The incoming boat bumped against the dock and the four men jumped off, Preston and three hard-cases in long coats.

  “We don’t want any trouble!” Riley called out.

  “Hello!” Preston Gregory called out. He had a metal briefcase in hand. “You must be Dave Riley. And Horace Chase. I know Chad. And Chad senior. And Dillon. We meet again. You left so quickly from Mister Fabrou’s yacht we didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. The lady is an enigma. Your name?”

  Chase took half a step forward. “You killed Merchant Fabrou and his son. Are you working with Sarah Briggs?”

  Preston cocked his head as if puzzled. His three men spread out, obviously trained. They all had bulges in their coats indicating they had automatic weapons on slings underneath them.

  “We’re outgunned,” Riley whispered.

  “No shit,” Westland said in the same low voice. “Delay them for a couple of minutes.”

  “And then what?” Riley asked.

  “Something you want to share?” Preston said, noting them whispering.

  The two groups were about fifteen meters apart. Outside amateur range, decent range for an expert with a pistol, and deadly for experts with automatic weapons.

  When no one replied, Preston looked past the front line to the Mongin’s. “Gentlemen, can we come to an agreement on the access point? I believe yo
u’ve been offered good money at a reasonable price.”

  Chad answered. “Damn, Preston. What are you doing? Why’d you kill Jerrod? And Mister Fabrou?”

  “I believe the evidence points to Dillon as Jerrod Fabrou’s killer,” Preston said. “And his father suffered an unfortunate heart attack upon hearing of his son’s death at Dillon’s hands. So both deaths can be laid at your feet,” he added, nodding toward Dillon.

  “I don’t think Chad is on your side any more,” Dillon said.

  Preston held up the metal case. “I think Chad is on the side of the money. Do we have a deal?” he asked the elder Mongin.

  “Sarah Briggs is playing you,” Chase said.

  “What Sarah does isn’t any of my concern,” Preston said. “Whatever is between you and her is your business.”

  “Where does she have my son?” Chase asked. “Where?”

  Preston shrugged. “Again, that’s between you and her.” He shifted his attention back to the Mongins. “I want the easement. Give me the signed documents you were provided with and my men and I, will be on our way. And you’ll get what we agreed upon.” He held up the briefcase. “You’ll be richer, the Mongins I mean,” he amended. “Not the rest of you. Unless they’re paying you to stand in front of them.”

  “What happened at the Institute with my son?” Chase asked.

  “Old history,” Preston said. “Terrible accident. So on and so forth, old fellow. I believe Mrs. Jenrette still holds a grudge. You’ll have to take that up with her.” He waved that aside. “Do we have a deal, Mister Mongin?”

  When there was no reply, Preston gestured. “Shoot Chad,” he ordered. One of his men brought a rifle to bear, peering through the laser sight.

  Riley, Chase and Westland pulled their pistols. The other two men whipped up their own automatic weapons.

  “Easy, everyone,” Riley called out. “This is a negotiation. Let’s not make it the O.K. Corral.”

  “That would make you the Clanton’s right?” Preston was grinning. “And I’m Wyatt Earp.”

  “Your hand is empty,” Westland said.

  “You must be Calamity Jane,” Preston said.

  “You’re mixing your Westerns,” Westland said. “Right now, a sniper has you targeted.” She brought her other hand up, phone in it. “I give the word, you’re dead.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” Preston said.

  “Warning shot,” Westland said.

  * * *

  The sniper was on the skid, a kilometer and a half away. The MH-6 was stealth-enabled, with special rotors, engine, and other gear that kept its noise to around a kilometer radius, which meant it was silent at her kill range.

  Which was the entire point.

  The monkey harness held the sniper from falling as she leaned into it, rifle to her shoulder.

  She hated warning shots. Waste of a bullet, but she also followed orders.

  She shifted her aiming point from Preston’s forehead to the metal case. She picked her aiming point, exhaled, found the sweet spot of not breathing and between heartbeats and caressed the hair trigger.

  * * *

  “Fuck!” Preston yelled as a bullet punched the case out of his hand, sending it tumbling to the ground.

  The three guards went to their knees, searching through their sights for the shooter, with no idea from which direction the shot had come.

  Preston was frozen, for once facing something he hadn’t planned.

  “Next bullet, you’re dead,” Westland said.

  “We’ll make the deal!” the elder Mongin cried out. “No one else needs to get hurt.” He held up a leather satchel. “The paperwork is all set. Like we agreed.”

  “Get it,” Preston ordered one of his men. “Give them the case.” The guy looked like he was going to protest, then picked up the punctured case and scuttled forward, past Chase, Riley and Westland and exchanged for the satchel.

  Preston began backing up. “Until we meet again.”

  “Kate, kill the son-of-a-bitch,” Riley suggested, in a voice loud enough for Preston to hear.

  “Then old Horace won’t see his son,” Preston yelled. “Kill me and he’s dead.”

  “You said you didn’t know where my son is?”

  “I lied,” Preston said.

  “Hold,” Westland said out loud.

  * * *

  The sniper had heard the conversation through the phone. She wasn’t pleased to stand down because in her experience appeasing a bad guy just put off the inevitable. Which was usually a 7.62 mm round through the skull.

  But orders were orders.

  And Preston wasn’t the target of this Sanction anyway.

  * * *

  “Where is he?” Chase demanded.

  “No idea at the moment,” Preston said. “But I’ll know by morning. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve been shot at.”

  As Preston and his three compatriots got in the boat and pulled away from Daufuskie, Riley turned to face Kate Westland as Chase looked to the south, the direction from which they knew the round had to have come, having extensive experience working with snipers.

  “Little bird, shooter on the skid,” Chase said, spotting the small dot hovering just above the treeline.

  “Cardena,” Riley said. “He sent you.”

  “I told you that,” Westland said.

  “No,” Riley said. “You said he told you about this and you decided to come. You didn’t tell us he ordered you and the cavalry to come here. Why?”

  “What the hell is going on?” the elder Mongin demanded.

  “You’ve got your money,” Riley said. “You and your son get going. You too,” he indicating Dillon.

  “I think we have the same objective,” Dillon said. “I’m staying.”

  “What’s your objective?” Chase asked.

  “Finding your son.”

  “For Mrs. Jenrette, right?” Chase said. “So she can kill him?”

  “She hired me,” Dillon admitted, “but my priority is finding out the truth.” He nodded toward the boat racing away. “Given recent events, I have a feeling that the truth of what happened that night isn’t what was reported.”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Riley said. “One thing at a time.” He pointed at Westland. “Why do you have chopper and sniper support?”

  “Cardena and the Cellar,” Westland said. “Did Riley tell you about the Cellar?”

  Chase nodded.

  “Okay,” Westland said. “Here’s the deal.” She noticed the two Mongins edging away with the briefcase. “Hold on,” she yelled at them. “Chad needs to hang around because he has something he needs to tell us, first. So I think both of you just sit your butts down for now.”

  The two Mongins obediently plopped down at the table.

  Westland faced Riley and Chase. “Let’s deal with Chad and Dillon first, then I’ll let you know what’s going on with me. All right?”

  Both men nodded. Chase went to the table. “Chad. What happened that night at the Institute?”

  Chad glanced at his father.

  “Tell the truth, son,” the old man said. “We’re in it too deep now. If Preston killed both Jerrod and Merchant Fabrou, we’ve got problems. Maybe these people can help.”

  Chad swallowed. “Preston killed Jerrod. He was hanging there. Like you left him,” he said to Dillon. “Preston cut the harness.”

  “All right,” Dillon said. “You know who you’re dealing with now, Chad. Preston will as soon as kill you too. There’s nothing left to protect. Tell us about the night Greer Jenrette died.”

  Chad hung his head, and when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

  Back to August, over a year ago.

  The bathroom was at the very end of the Sinks, underneath the Institute barracks. It had a name among the cadets: Dante’s Den. It was off-limits to rats, unless they were ordered to report there; a summons dreaded among the first-year cadets.

  There were a select few, though, who anticipated that summons with some
thing more than dread: with the anticipation of the first step of inclusion into the Ring. As legacies of the Ring, they’d been told about it by their father’s, as their father’s had been told about it by their own. It was tradition. It was a rite of passage.

  The summons had come for Wing and Greer twenty minutes before Taps, via a note slid under each of their doors.

  Dante’s Den

  15 minutes before Taps

  Uniform: As for PT, under Raincoat, under arms

  Bring this note

  It was an order, and rats obeyed orders. Both scurried to get into the proper, bizarre, uniform and hustle down the stairs.

  Preston, Chad and Jerrod were waiting, dressed in civilian clothes, passing a bottle back and forth. At least Chad and Jerrod were. They’d never seen Preston drink, even though he’d bought the expensive whiskey as they drove back to the Institute after a day on the town.

  “Hit the wall!” Chad screamed as Greer Jenrette showed up first. “Present arms!”

  “Give me the note,” Jerrod demanded, taking it and stuffing the evidence in his pocket.

  Greer obediently slammed back against the tile wall of the open-bay shower, chin tucked tight into his chest, his M-14 at present arms, his bayonet in its scabbard, dangling from a starched white belt over his shorts and underneath his raincoat. He wore the gray physical training T-shirt, his name stenciled about the Institute crest.

  Chad and Jerrod giggled, passing the bottle once more, but Preston eyed Greer in a way that made the rat very nervous.

  “How’s your grandmother, Jenrette?” Preston asked.

  “Fine, sir!” Greer shouted.

  “No. I mean really. How is she? Ready to kick the bucket any time soon?” Preston asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “You sure, old boy?” Preston’s assumed accent was kicking in.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Too bad,” Preston said. “You know she didn’t invite Cadet Mongin’s parents to the Saint Cecilia Ball last year?”

  “No, sir.”

  Chad got in his face. “We not good enough for you?”